These Days
by Osidiano
Summary: My entry for the Brotherlylove's Christmas contest. The Kaiba brothers exchange gifts under strange and sad circumstances.


Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh, or any of the characters mentioned in this story. I don't own the series' creator, either. Also, I am not making any money off this story, so please don't try to sue me. All original ideas in this fic are original (duh), and belong to me. If you try to steal it, then I will kill you. A lot. This story is _AC _(_A_lternate _C_ontinuity), taking place some time after the DOOM Arc, and contains some angst and reference to schizophrenia. This was written to be a contest piece in Brotherlylove's Christmas fic contest. Please enjoy.

**These Days**

The sky was dark, bleak and merciless above the frigid city; heavy storm clouds hovering low in the atmosphere as if awaiting some divine cue to pour rain or sleet down upon the inhabitants of Domino. It had been like this all day, with no sign of the sun's existence, like perhaps the world was simply made of this grey misery that permeated the air and slithered down one's throat like some kind of poison. Like a plague, insistent on surviving this cold winter at the cost of countless lives. And it was easy to imagine that this day would last an eternity, with the world caught up in dreaming of tomorrow and the better times to come. Dreaming of the heralding of spring: of sun and laughter, the birth of life.

But spring and the promise of new beginnings was a long way off.

Slowly, lapis blue eyes brushed over the stone and black metal surrounding their owner, a tall young man with a perpetual scowl on his thin lips. A chill wind had mussed his short brown hair not too long ago, and he had yet to make a move to smooth it all back down. He looked down at the white flowers in his hands; at the thin ribbon holding it all together, and at the gloved fingers that wrapped around those delicate green stems. Vaguely, as though the sound came from far away, he could hear the frosted grass crunch under someone's steps. He didn't look up, not even when the new arrival began to speak.

"It's been a while now, big brother."

Emotion caught in his throat, strange feelings like sadness and regret strangling the words he wished to speak. And so the young man said nothing, tried to satisfy himself with listening, and held back tears he couldn't bring forth.

"I thought you said you'd come see me everyday. What happened?"

It was all said so quietly, so gently, like one or both members of the conversation were made of finely blown glass. He could hear the newcomer - the beloved little brother - sigh, and the young man could imagine the sorrowful shake of long black hair that must have followed such an escape of hope. Because that was what it _really_ was: the boy abandoning his childish beliefs in his elder brother, the ones that for so long he had clung to with an admirable desperation. And with the loss of that façade came an anger born from years of neglect.

"Is your company more important than me? Your games and competitions, maybe? How about your hate, is that more important than me?"

An accusation, and the young man flinched, shied away from such an ugly false truth. He wanted to tell his brother that nothing was more important, wanted to ask how anything could ever be more important than the last living member of his family, but couldn't. His mouth opened, lips formed the words that just wouldn't come. The boy continued.

"Sometimes I don't even think that you're really my big brother anymore. And do you know why? Because _my_ big brother loved me, and he told me - he _promised_ me - that no matter what, he would always be there for me."

"M-Mokuba, please-" the young man tried to speak again, this time managed to push the brother's name out in what would have become a plea for forgiveness, had Mokuba not interrupted.

"No! I'm tired of being quiet, and tired of going through this every year. Damnit, it's not fair! I want my big brother back. I want the man who smiled at me, and used to play chess with me and tell me all about his great ideas to make all the world's children happy. Do you even remember those days, way back in the orphanage?"

A tiny sob escaped one of them, was torn from an unwilling host and tossed into the air between them. It was only when the young man felt the sore burning in his suddenly raw throat that he realized he had been the one to make that pitiful little cry. Because of course he remember, and on dark and dreary days such as this one, he dreamed of being the man that he would have - that he _should_ have, by all right - become. But Mokuba was relentless with his brutal criticisms.

"No, you wouldn't remember, would you? Because you don't care about the past, and you don't like to think about the past, do you? You're too damn preoccupied with the future, and fighting battles that you know you can't win!"

That was the last straw. The young man jerked his head up, blue eyes narrowed in a proud defiance though the guilt and shame were still evident just below the surface. Tension rippled down his arms, hands clenching around the stems of the flowers, tender bouquet shaking slightly in that violent grip. But when his red-hazed vision cleared, when the anger and accusatory tone in his brother's voice where gone, there was nothing. Only he remained, standing there in front of the stone.

Alone.

The scowl returned to his face, displeasured mask falling into place with perfected ease. Carelessly, he dropped the flowers onto the mound of earth between him and the tombstone, turning abruptly. His good-bye was said over his shoulder as if it were an after thought:

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Mokuba."


End file.
